Chapter 646
The bar manager rushed forward to help the fallen man. "Young Master Whitmore!"
A tight circle formed around Tristan. Evelyn Sinclair let out a cold scoff while Tristan trembled.
Whispers spread through the crowd. "She's done for. Young Master Whitmore isn't someone you mess with. He won't let this slide."
"Right? Think he'll call the cops and frame her?"
"Manager, what do we do? Hand her over?"
Tristan struggled to open his eyes and unlocked his phone. "Call my wife to pick me up. The song was great. Don't start trouble!"
He couldn't afford to cross Evelyn. Best to distance himself.
The thought barely formed before he passed out.
The manager hesitated, then picked up Tristan's phone to arrange a ride.
Evelyn's voice cut through the tension. "He's divorced. Call his friend instead."
She found Nathan Blackwood's number in Tristan's contacts and tossed the phone back. Then she grabbed her bag and left with Isabella Montgomery.
The manager wavered. He dialed the contact labeled "Wifey" first.
Disconnected in one ring.
Guess the divorce was real.
Next, he called Nathan.
Nathan barely reacted to the news of Tristan's drunken state. He sent someone to collect him but didn’t bother showing up himself.
Outside, a sharp gust of wind hit Evelyn and Isabella, making them shiver. They exchanged a glance and laughed.
"You're almost drunk. I'll take you home," Isabella said, then frowned. "Wait, where's your car?"
"My driver dropped me off."
Isabella blinked. "Same here."
Evelyn pulled out her phone. "I'll call my brother. You can stay at my place tonight."
A shadow darted past them.
Evelyn, slowed by alcohol, barely registered it—until her hand was empty.
Across the street, a group of punks with neon hair grinned maliciously.
Evelyn and Isabella locked eyes.
Trouble.
This bar was new, unclaimed territory. Naturally, gangs were circling.
"Hey, pretty ladies. Wanna have some fun?" One whistled, leering.
Two women against a pack of wolves.
Evelyn sobered fast. Her gaze turned icy. "Give me back my phone."
"Or what? Maybe if you kiss me, I'll think about it."
Evelyn's expression darkened. These idiots were nothing to her.
But Isabella couldn't fight. If things turned ugly, she might get hurt.
While Evelyn hesitated, the loudest punk suddenly screamed, clutching his head as he collapsed.
Blood poured from a wound where a rock had struck him.
A man stepped into the light from the bar entrance—dressed in black, his usual polished demeanor gone.
Preston Sinclair?
Evelyn blinked. The ruthless glint in his eyes made her think, for a second, she was looking at Nathan.
Preston dusted off his hands like the rock had dirtied them. "Ms. Sterling. Wait here. I'll take you home soon."
The punks, seeing he was alone, lost their fear. With a roar, they charged.
Evelyn moved to help, but Isabella yanked her back. "Eve, no! You can't brawl like this—what kind of impression does that give?"